


laura & daphne

by verity



Series: tween wolf: apocrypha [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Laura, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bruises, F/F, First Time, Marking, Menstruation Kink, Neckz 'n' Throatz, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Porn Magazines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-10 07:03:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short stories about Laura Hale and Daphne Martin from my series "tween wolf," posted as chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you would

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blue_rocket_frost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_rocket_frost/gifts), [whiskey_in_tea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskey_in_tea/gifts).



> THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU WRITE FIC TO BLOW OFF STEAM
> 
> AND THEN MORE FIC HAPPENS
> 
> (What's going on? Read [tween wolf](http://archiveofourown.org/series/40964). Don't care and just want to read ladies getting it on? By all means, full steam ahead.)
> 
> thanks to the_ragnarok for betaing the story here!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> written for Ashe's birthday <3

Daphne’s managed to let go of the mountain ash blade in her hand by the time Laura gets home, enough to drop it under the floor and kick it under the couch. She’ll find it later; it didn’t help, anyway, when she was in their house, in her own—

“Derek,” Laura says, and Derek glances up from the Tom Clancy novel he’s reading. They lock eyes for a long moment before Derek dog-ears his page and stands. “Check the perimeter. I’ll call Alan later.”

“Right,” Derek says. Like that made sense.

He leaves the room before Laura kneels in front of Daphne, puts a hand on the couch next to her. “Another wolf was here. He—he  _marked_  this place. Did he—”

Daphne shakes her head. “He didn’t touch me.”

Laura touches her. She puts her free hand on Daphne’s thigh, just below the hem of her cut-offs. It’s summer and Daphne lives in shorts, threadbare old shirts, new flip flops that blister before they wear smooth calluses between her toes. There are old scars under Laura’s hand, thin and faded, but Laura isn’t looking at them. “I’d rip him apart,” Laura says. Her teeth are shiny and white.

“You would,” Daphne says.

The front of the house faces south, so the living room gets light all day; it’s spilling in now through the cracks in the blinds and around the edges. Laura leans forward and presses her forehead against Daphne’s knee, and Daphne puts her hand in Laura’s hair.

—

They’re pack, so they touch, scent each other; but it’s always little things. Derek steals Daphne’s lighters, she steals his jacket, Laura steals her t-shirts, musses Derek’s hair, complains that they make everything smell like cigarette smoke and ash. Sometimes she puts her head in Daphne’s lap while they watch  _Law & Order: SVU_ and Derek whines about Laura hogging the remote. They tossed the lumpy futon with the broken frame when Laura and Derek moved, but Daphne spent a lot of nights on it before, face tucked against the mattress cover and taking comfort with her human nose in all its familiar smells: tobacco, perfume, guacamole, that one upturned pint glass of Jarritos Tamarindo and Maker’s Mark.

“What do you need?” Daphne asks, bending down to bring her mouth close to Laura’s ear.

Laura turns her head, nudges her cheek against Daphne’s leg. “Everything smells wrong. Just—we’ve, we haven’t been here long enough yet, the house doesn’t hold our scent, and  _he_ —”

Daphne pulls her hair out of the elastic and shakes it loose: it’s greasy at the roots and dry at the tips, the way it always gets when she bleaches it during the summer. “Come on,” she says. “Come up here. I smell like me.”

Already, Laura’s climbing onto the couch, straddling Daphne’s lap, burying her face in the curve of Daphne’s neck. She’s a lot taller than Daphne, so she has to pull Daphne close to do her octopus-werewolf cuddle and smell move. “I’m sorry,” Laura mutters.

“It’s okay.” Daphne tilts her head back. “We’re safe, I’m safe, you’re safe, Derek’s safe as long as he stops reading Tom Clancy in the same room as me and taking notes in the margins.”

“Derek doesn’t do that,” Laura says.

“He buys hardbacks at yard sales,” Daphne says. “He  _highlights_  in them.”

Maybe it’s a little weird that they’re talking about Derek while they’re doing—whatever this is—but Daphne doesn’t care if it gets Laura to relax, to sigh against Daphne’s skin and rub her face in Daphne’s hair. Laura’s still in uniform, so this could be exciting and kinky if Daphne was into that, but mostly she’s into Laura. Even in ugly, no-iron khaki and decked out in a badge.

Laura was born to be an alpha, but not like it happened, not like this. She can’t turn off her overactive sense of responsibility at the end of the day, and she can’t turn off her need to protect them so easily, either. And she can’t protect them, now; they can’t protect themselves.

All Daphne can do is anchor Laura, pull her in like this, let Laura hold her and not let go.

—

“Hey,” Daphne says, when it starts to get dark. “Is Derek still out there? He never came back.”

Laura shakes her head. “He probably went to see Alan. He knows—he knows how I get.”

“And how’s that?” Daphne says. “Sad and clingy?”

Laura pulls back, lifts her head to look Daphne in the eye. “Territorial,” she says.

They’re alone in the house, and Laura’s in her lap, and they—they don’t do this. Derek is Daphne’s best friend and Laura is her alpha. Daphne’s away most of the year, anyway, even if she calls home twice a week. It’s always seemed easier to—not. There’s no one for either of them to feel jealous of, which, in retrospect, might have been a clue.

“I think I need a more detailed explanation,” Daphne says. “Maybe you could show me what you mean.”

“You sure?” Laura says. She slides her hand up beneath the hem of Daphne’s t-shirt, the pads of her fingers ghosting up Daphne’s side.

“Yes,” Daphne says, digging her fingers into Laura’s hip. “Come on. I’ve got you.”


	2. instinct and play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the one with the menstruation kink
> 
> WARNING: contains some spoilers for tween wolf season 2! but only a little.

Daphne wakes up at ten with the sun shining in her face, all tense and tight down in her belly. Ten is unfair. Ten is a time made for other people, other people who can do things like getting out of bed and closing the curtains, other people who are capable of… mornings.

It takes a few minutes for her to register that her thighs are slick where they press together; Daphne doesn't even bother to reach a hand down to check for the tell-tale red smear. She pulls the duvet over her head and rolls over, ends up nose-down in the sad little valley between pillows. Laura's is damp and smells like gardenias because she went to bed with wet hair.

Maybe Laura will change the sheets and close the curtains, if Daphne looks really sad about it, or pretends to be asleep forever.

Daphne falls back asleep while she's considering her options.

 

—

"Everybody went to the pool," Laura says.

It seems like there's more sun in the room, now, but that's hard to tell through the duvet. Laura's hand is warm on Daphne's back, pulling away the dull throb of pain lower down. "That's nice," Daphne mumbles into the sheets.

Laura pulls up the edge of the duvet just enough that she can crawl underneath, her body blocking the light from Daphne's face. " _Everybody_ went to the pool, even Derek. I think he's refereeing. "

"Poor baby," Daphne says, turning so she can burrow into Laura's shoulder. She went to sleep in a t-shirt, didn't bother with underwear; she was feeling optimistic, before, about getting five minutes with Laura that she didn't have to share with three supernaturally attuned teenagers. And Derek. Instead, she got her period, days early, and everything hurts and Laura's putting her hand on Daphne's sticky thigh anyway. "Ugh, I'm gross."

"No, you're not," Laura says. Leers. Daphne can _hear_ her leering.

Abruptly, Daphne reassesses the situation. The house is empty. Laura is in bed with her, feeling her up, dragging her fingertips through the mess between Daphne's legs. "Don't stop," she says. "Don't—"

Chocolate's never worked for Daphne; the only thing that helps aside from ibuprofen and hot water bottles is getting herself off, quick and sloppy, one hand between her thighs and the other toying with her breasts. Most of the time, Daphne has to work up to getting herself off, start by running a hand up and down her side and scouring her fantasy catalogue for primo masturbation material, but when she's on her period she doesn't need any lead-up or finesse. Laura's barely touching her, and Daphne's nipples are already hard, sensitive against the fabric of her shirt.

Laura brings her mouth right up against Daphne's, so close that their lips brush when she speaks. "It's—look, it's, I know it's weird, but you always—I've always wanted to, you always smell amazing, and I want—"

"Is this a werewolf thing?" Daphne finds the hem of Laura's shirt, sneaks a hand up beneath it. Laura's not wearing a bra, just a tank top and shorts, her breasts soft and round under Daphne's hand. Everything's still so new between them, and Laura's body is familiar-not-familiar; all those long years of looking without touch. Daphne wants to map every part of her.

"No." Laura sounds a little embarrassed. "It's just—just a me thing."

Daphne slides her hand further up, drags her thumb across Laura's nipple; Laura goes still and taut. "Let's ruin your bed," Daphne says. "I've already trashed the sheets."

"I'll live," Laura says, and closes the gap between them, covers Daphne's mouth with hers.

 

—

The first time, she just strokes Daphne's clit with her finger until Daphne shakes and shakes, digs her fingernails deep enough into Laura's arm to leave bruises. Chest heaving, Daphne watches the red crescents fade away and smooth out while Laura smooths Daphne's hair back from her face. "Can I…" Laura bends down to nose against Daphne's jaw. "I want to taste you," she whispers. "I mean—if that's not—"

"You want to take a bite out of me?" Daphne shifts to bare her neck, jokes because—okay, that's fucking hot, but—weird. She's never thought about having someone eat her out like this, when she's all tender and sore and warm, but now she _wants_ it, wants Laura, who's even now leaving bloody fingerprints all up her hip and kissing just beneath her ear, the place that makes Daphne squirm and sigh. "Don't you want me to—?"

"Later." Laura pushes herself up on her elbows; her hair, loose, spills down around her, brushes against Daphne's face. The duvet is long-discarded, crumpled at the foot of the bed along with their clothes and the pajama pants Daphne misplaced a week ago. "Let me do you."

"Okay, fine," Daphne says, already shoving herself up the bed.

Laura moves down, pushes apart Daphne's thighs, gets right up in between them. She gives Daphne a quick, shy look before she ducks down to put her mouth on Daphne's cunt. They've done this once before, in the first flurry of things, before everything went to shit and their house filled up with werewolf summer camp. That was at night, though, upstairs in Daphne's room beneath the eaves, and now they're in Laura's bed, sun filtering through the blinds, and Laura puts her tongue on Daphne's clit and _licks_.

"Fuck, fuck, holy _fuck,_ " Daphne says, and Laura laughs against her, the vibration spiraling out from where her lips are spread between Daphne's and radiating out to the tips of Daphne's fingers. When she puts a finger inside Daphne, it slides in easily; she's already slick, ready for Laura to fuck her like this, fingers curving inside her while Laura skirts her clit with her tongue, teasing. "Come on, just—"

Laura lifts her head for a moment, her mouth a wet red slash across her face: she looks _wild_. Laura the wolf is Laura the alpha, deliberate and sure, but this Laura—Daphne's Laura—is all instinct and play. She crooks her fingers in Daphne's cunt, rubs her thumb over Daphne's clit, and that's it: Daphne closes her eyes, shudders, comes and comes and comes.

 

—

It's easy to get Laura off, after that; Daphne kisses her bloody mouth while she touches her, pinching Laura's nipples until she comes up for air and begs for mercy. Her lips move against Daphne's, gasping, make wordless forms while she rakes her human nails up Daphne's back. "Wow, you really like this," Daphne says at one point, rocking her hand into Laura, two fingers in her cunt and her thumb pressing against Laura's clit. "You really, really do."

Laura rolls her eyes, and then, right there, that's when she tips over, clenching around Daphne's fingers and arching up into her touch. Her face goes tight and rapt for a moment, like a Bernini sculpture, before her whole body starts to curl in. Daphne stills her hand; waits a minute before she pulls her fingers out, as stainless as they went in. She brings them to her mouth and holds Laura's gaze as she licks them, tastes Laura, salty and tangy.

"You like it, too," Laura says, eyes heavy-lidded.

Daphne noses against her shoulder.

Then she rescues the duvet from where it's crammed against the footboard, and they go back to sleep.

 

—

Stiles is the first one back to the house, and the one who finds Daphne in the kitchen. She forgot about them, somehow, their wayward ducklings, so she left Laura dozing in bed and ventured out in only a bathrobe, her old one that's short enough to show all the long, bloody tracks down her thighs, and the marks Laura left behind, smears and prints alike. "Whoa, Daphne, are you okay?" he says, dropping his backpack by the back door. "What happened? Is Laura—"

Daphne rolls her eyes. "Laura's fine."

"Sure," Stiles says. "Um—wait—" His eyes flick down to her thighs again. "Uh—do you need me to, like, call off the werewolf brigade? Because they're like ten minutes behind me, Scott and Erica got in an argument ab—"

Yeah, Daphne does not give one shit about their teenage drama. "That’s okay," she says. "I'm going back to bed."

She doesn't disturb Laura, doesn't strip the sheets, just lies back down in the wreck she's made of the bed and stretches out, body loose and pliant. They've spent enough time babying these kids, with their sensitive hearts and minds and noses, treating them like innocents they never were. Daphne is over it. She's not going to clean up her life or wash away the evidence to cater to them. Period sex isn't a wolf thing for Laura, but, as it turns out, it's totally one for Daphne: she's already getting turned on again, thinking about it, the way they marked each other like territory.

 

—

Later, she and Derek go smoke on the back porch, and Daphne tries not to radiate the smugness of the recently and spectacularly laid. "Sorry about putting a mutiny on your hands, traumatizing the kids for life, etcetera," she lies.

"No, you're not," Derek says sadly. "Let's never talk about this again."

—

Later still, she turns around in Laura's embrace to murmur in her ear. "Next time," Daphne says, "When you're—you know—next time, I want to do it to you."


	3. werewolf playgirl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> neckz 'n throats beckoned; I answered the call. with femslash.

Daphne finds the magazine under the driver's seat in Derek's car.

It's still in the opaque plastic wrap, a drab olive green, which tears easily enough when Daphne drags a nail across the front. The jagged edges give way to a sinewy stretch of throat, mottled with bruises, Adam's apple prominent. Daphne considers putting the magazine back where she found it, but the damage is already done. She widens the tear until she can pull the plastic free, uncovering the neat sans-serif print of the title: _NECKZ 'n THROATS_.

She's paging through the articles (the centerfold is all waxed boy-chest and carefully-placed hickeys, not her thing) when Derek comes back, sees what she's reading, and blanches. "Daphne—" he starts.

"Oh, don't incriminate yourself further," Daphne says, lifting her hand to halt him. "Is this werewolf Playgirl? Because, I gotta say—"

"Don't," Derek says.

—

_NECKZ 'n THROATS_ doesn't have a website; you have to mail in for a subscription. Daphne mails. The magazine shows up monthly in her box at school, always in that nondescript wrapper. She keeps the issues under her bed, more because _werewolf_ than _skin mag_. The actual skin is expansive, but pretty tame—no full frontal, just a lot of six-packs and some sideboob. All of the parts that Daphne's been taught to eroticize are accessories for the neck real estate, ivory and ebony and every shade in between, most of it pristine, unblemished canvas. Markings are saved for centerfolds, the occasional cover.

What's the audience for this kind of thing? Werewolves, yeah—all of the language inside hedges around it, but the alpha/beta/omega thing is hard to miss when you're looking for it, and some of those bruises definitely do not look human in origin.

Daphne bruises easily. Sometimes she still digs her fingers in as she heals, waiting for the pain to rise up and ground her. Now she reads each issue of _NECKZ 'n THROATS_ cover to cover, saves all of them, even the ones that are just one boy after another, yielding and wanton and boring. They're all human, each one of them, boys and girls who run with wolves and bear the loving marks of it.

Daphne doesn't know why Derek reads _NECKZ 'n THROATS_. Maybe just for the tame-ass werewolf porn.

—

The following summer is when Daphne starts seeing how Laura looks at her neck. She's subtle about it, but Daphne would have noticed if Laura were looking at her rack like that, her ass, anything she used to cover up to ward off the dudely panopticon. Daphne's always in t-shirts with ripped out collars or tank tops, it's not like her neck's not on display. It's not a big deal.

One day she catches herself doing it, too, studying the curve from jawline to shoulder as she neatens her violet ponytail in the mirror. Her neck is—nice; she's no [Consuelo Vanderbilt](http://www.jssgallery.org/Paintings/Duke_of_Marlborough_Family.htm), but she's a passable [Madame X](http://www.jssgallery.org/Paintings/Madame_X.htm), a page 6 girl if not a centerfold. Daphne's seen enough _NECKZ 'n THROATS_ centerfolds to know.

—

"So," Daphne says when Laura's bed is done, frame assembled and mattress resting on top. "You ready to christen this thing? Have some dirty magazines to stash under there?"

Laura laughs and throws herself down on the mattress. She stretches, the hem of her shirt riding up while her head and feet dangle. "What do you think I read? _Bondage Monthly_? _Allure_?"

"I have a subscription to _NECKZ 'n THROATS_." Daphne leans back against the door frame.

"Do you keep it under your bed?" Laura asks. With her head hanging over the edge of the mattress, her neck's all long and white, perfect and swanlike. Daphne can't look away. This is it: she's gone native.

"What do you think?" Daphne says.

—

When Daphne tilts back her head and bares her throat to Laura, she knows what she's doing. She lets Laura bury her face there like it's a prelude to werewolf softcore porn, the tentative touch of skin to skin an effortless segue to open-mouthed assault. That's kind of fucked up, because this is supposed to be comfort for Laura, the reassurance of pack scent an anchor in the face of creepster werewolf home invasion. Daphne strokes Laura's hair, calms down a little; this is comfort for her, too.

"You can mark me if you want," she says, later, after Laura's put her mouth on Daphne's but given her neck a careful berth.

"You sure?" Laura's lips are still ghosting over Daphne's, hovering at the corner of her mouth. "You don't have to—"

Daphne pulls back, just a little; enough to meet Laura's eyes, which are bright and certain. "I want you to do it," Daphne says. "And I know you want to, I've seen how you—"

"You have," Laura says, slowly, as she bends her head.

She's nothing like Peter, who sunk his teeth in on the other side of Daphne's neck; Laura's are blunt and careful, her mouth doing all the work, heat and wet and suction. Daphne feels just as electric and terrified. Her hands are still under Laura's shirt, one at Laura's waist and the other skating over the notches of Laura's spine. Laura worries at Daphne's skin, breathes through her nose for long minutes, enough that when she lets go the absence is a shock before the pain floods back in, blooming with the bruise on Daphne's throat.

"Feel better?" Daphne says, voice shaky.

Laura brushes her cheek against Daphne's. "That's a start."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
